


Münchausen

by epithetta



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:56:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epithetta/pseuds/epithetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bute Park is full of sloppy Johns, lazing about in the grass, rolling in used condoms and cigarette butts, and they'll do a lot for ten quid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Münchausen

**Author's Note:**

> Written utilising challenge 3.03: 500 words using one of the chosen signs. Sign used: number three from [here](http://community.livejournal.com/writerinadrawer/106736.html%20).

Torchwood, he tells you, is dangerous, and then he does this brow thing and a hand wave, and you aren't sure whether he wants to impress upon you something comical or dreadful; you don't enlighten him, not in the middle of Torchwood Three's 'basic training,' which consists of shooting, welding, punching, hacking and running. 

You know about humans, and he knows about aliens, so you make a good team; to him, you are a rubics cube. To you, he is one of those glass sculptures with liquid inside that separates into blue and yellow, running down a series of slides when you turn it over. 

(You name your paperweight.) 

You spend a lot of time in Bute Park, running and shooting. It's a thing. Jack continues to impress upon you all the things he thinks are worth remembering: Torchwood—raar! Aliens—raar! You are wondering when he'll follow it to the last step, but he never does.

When you aren't attached to his hip, he's attached to someone else's, and you like that. It's one of those latter nights when you aren't chasing or shooting that you find yourself back here. Bute Park is full of sloppy Johns, lazing about in the grass, rolling in used condoms and cigarette butts, and they'll do a lot for ten quid.

(You ask the bank teller for the newest tenners she has, so fresh you have to crumple them to make sure they don't stick.)

He's got a layer of crusted snot in his nose that tells you it's been huffing glue recently. You offer him money just to show it to you, really. You hadn't planned on sucking it, this dubious thing. It's like licking a toilet, a roulette of what you might get, a gift, maybe, something that you can say you paid for, like buying yourself a birthday present with your own money.

It smells like cancer, like the rubbish you haven't taken out in three weeks. You gag around it when you take it in, because you hadn't been sure, not until now. He groans, pumping your head; you bring yourself with two fingers, fingers that you've been digging in the dirt, so now your cunt is muddy and caked with dead grass.

On the park bench, you stare at the sign when the SUV lights hit it, and the reflectors imbedded in its surface seem to catch fire; it wouldn't be a bad thing to steal, if you were so inclined. 

(Your panties weren't clean when you went in, anyway.) 

'Suze,' Jack says, poking his head out the window, 'I got your message. Are you okay?'

He doesn't get out of the car.

You push off the bench and run your finger down the sign. It's wearing a layer of filth you can only see when you draw a line down it.

'Yeah,' you say, raising your voice so that he knows that you are okay, 'just a little bit of a scare is all.'

END


End file.
